


the sinner inside

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, Service Top Thorin, Soft Cock Sucking, dunno why thats not a tag because I personally love it??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23731489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: He often gazes at Thorin in this manner, holds him arrested and pins him down to study with skepticism, like he cannot believe he is worth such fuss. But Thorin will spend the rest of their lives showing him how truly and maddeningly worthy of desire he is, if Bilbo lets him. He will lay himself prostrate at his altar, and pray himself hoarse. He is a zealot, and he is not renowned for his restraint.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 25
Kudos: 238





	the sinner inside

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha will I ever??? stop??? wanting to write and or cry about Service Top Thorin wanting to put his mouth all over Bilbo in THE BEDROOM they share together IN BAG END where they RETIRE??? Who knows!! not me!!! I tattooed the lonely mountain on my wife today so I guess that's where we're at now lads!! that wasn't a metaphor by the way I literally tattooed it check out phoenix.mendoza.tattoo on Instagram because pictures or if didn't happen amitite. 
> 
> Anyway this happened because of Depeche Mode, as most things happen. There are notes of possessive!Thorin in this but his possessiveness manifests as wanting to suck cock, apparently, so it's sort of nonthreatening, I hope? Thorin's Love Language is acts of service, jot that down. 
> 
> ANYWAY enjoy!! I love them so so so so much!!!!

—-

Thorin wants Bilbo all the time. 

It blinds him, whites out his vision like a snow-storm or else tints it red with blood. It shocks him, because he’s long accustomed to the color of rage, but not the color of desire. It’s more muted, more maroon, more bruise-like. He sees Bilbo and he simmers and tries to temper down the ensuing flames because it seems _excessive,_ how unrelenting his craving remains even after he’s memorized the feel of his body under his palms and the fit of his cock in his mouth and the salt of his sweat under his tongue. But once Thorin feels the surge of want it takes him over, and there’s no coming back from a force like that. It is like the moon driving tide, or oil doused fire. He wants him and he wants him and then he _needs_ him, and so he will have him. Thorin is known for many things, but he is not known for his restraint. 

Miraculously, Bilbo never tires of his incessant ministrations. He’s always right there alongside him, hands tangled in the silver streaked curls of his hair, back arching, cheeks flushed, eyes hooded in anticipation even if he’s scolding Thorin for being so transparent, so tireless. He never _denies_ him, which is a good thing, because Thorin is not sure he would know how to stop if Bilbo ever asked him to. One cannot stop a hurricane. One cannot stop the sea. 

Right now, it is some indistinct time in the morning after second breakfast and before elevenses, both of which Bilbo _still_ insists upon taking, dragging them both out of bed, him in his robe and Thorin in a fur tucked loosely around his naked body because dressing fully seems pointless and foolish when they both know what the future entails. In this moment things are still, but any second Bilbo might decide he’s hungry and haul Thorin to his feet and into the kitchen, but right now, he is quiet. Spread out naked and lush and pink in the bed with a half-smile quirking up the corner of his lips, fingers tangling idly in Thorin’s hair. 

It is a miraculous, wonderful feeling. Thorin always goes quite still when Bilbo pets him, as if any movement might make him decide otherwise and stop. So, Thorin hasn’t moved since he last brought Bilbo off some long, honey-slow minutes ago. His head rests upon a plump, hairless thigh, beard still spit-wet and musky, palms spread wide and possessive over the curve of Bilbo’s stomach, which is his favorite place on the whole of Bilbo’s body to bite, to mark. 

“Could you eat? I could eat,” Bilbo says eventually, fingers bumping up behind the shell of Thorin’s ear, clumsy and sweet. 

“You could always eat,” Thorin reminds him, rubbing his lips into the soft, red-gold curls between his thighs, making him squirm and squeak and try in vain to twist away. Thorin is heavy, though, so he slackens up on Bilbo’s legs and grips his hips, holding him down. “You’re insatiable.” 

Bilbo makes a gasping, mock-affronted sound in his throat before he dissolves into laughter. “ _I’m_ insatiable? You’re the one who wakes _me_ up from very nice, peaceful dreams of baking bread and cherry tarts at least _twice_ a night to paw all over me until we’re both sweating _._ The sheets are dirty, Thorin, and there’s no point in even _laundering_ them because I _know_ you’ll just do the same thing again. Dreadful.” 

Thorin mumbles wordlessly against his skin, nothing to say because of course, Bilbo is _right_. And sometimes he worries about such thing, worries that he needs Bilbo more than Bilbo needs him, that he’s wearing him out, demanding too much of his body, terrifying him into silence with the sheer _power_ of his own unrelenting hunger. “I’m sorry,” Thorin says automatically, sitting back without letting go of Bilbo, his fingers still digging into his flesh, dimpling it. “About interrupting your dreams. And dirtying the sheets. I do not—I am not—”

“Thorin, _Thorin,_ ” Bilbo interrupts easily, smiling in that slanted, sly way of his, a flattening of his lips over his teeth before he’s back to looking as worried and careworn as always. “You know I hate it when you fall into your absurd, self-deprecating spirals. I was only teasing you,” he says then, reaching for Thorin and pulling him back down with a stinging fistful of his hair. “Come here,” he orders, making Thorin buckle and collapse against him, his chest between his thighs, parting them wider like Bilbo is a wishbone to be split. A glorious, precious good luck charm. “I love the way you need me. Do you know how massively, terribly _, shockingly_ flatteringit is—really— to have the former King Under the Mountain and also the most objectively attractive man I’ve _ever_ seen in my whole formerly pitiful life _positively_ _beg_ for me over and over again? My goodness. I could let it go to my head, if I were that sort of hobbit,” he explains, razing his blunt nails lightly up the length of Thorin’s spine, making him groan and shift against him, lost again, powerless again. 

The heat builds in Thorin’s gut, and he licks the soft, fine trail of hair from Bilbo’s navel to what lies beneath it, matting it down in spit. “I am not too much for you?” he rumbles against him, palming over his soft cock, which is still sticky with his saliva. 

“Hardly,” Bilbo says coyly before he winces like he’s too sensitive, canting away Thorin’s touch. “You may do whatever you want with me, whenever you want. I’m not afraid of you,” he adds then, gaze dark as it flicks down to hold Thorin’s, wavering like something caught in the wind. “However, I simply _cannot_ promise I’ll be able to come for you again. Or even get hard, tragically. There are certain things, certain limitations I have—but only in _body._ You may still do as you please. You could fuck me like this, come inside me,” he murmurs breathlessly, clawing down to Thorin’s shoulders, palming greedily over muscle. “I’d let you.” 

Thorin groans, rubbing his face deeper into the junction of Bilbo’s thighs, inhaling the smell of him, drunk on the softness of his skin, how defenseless and vulnerable he is like his. Wanting, _willing. “_ I don’t—I could never use your body to pleasure myself so,” he grits out. “But I—I could touch myself, while I have you in my mouth. Just to taste you, even when you’re soft, would be enough. More than enough, Bilbo. An honor. A privilege.” 

“Ah,” Bilbo hisses, spreading his legs wider, dragging Thorin between them with his arm locked, like he’s considering it, at least. “You’d—even if I stay this way, you’d still want me in your mouth?” he breathes, gaze skittering and fever hot. He often gazes at Thorin in this manner, holds him arrested and pins him down to study with skepticism, like he cannot believe he is worth such fuss. But Thorin will spend the rest of their lives showing him how truly and maddeningly worthy of desire he is, if Bilbo lets him. He will lay himself prostrate at his altar, and pray himself hoarse. He is a zealot, and he is not renowned for his restraint. 

“Yes,” he promises, voice all breath. Bilbo relinquishes the pressure of his grip so that he might drop a kiss to his soft cock, making sure his lips only brush it tenderly, that he is not rough, or demanding, or holding any sort of expectation in his touch. “I always want you in my mouth. I—I would be gentle. I _will_ be gentle, just. Please. Let me taste.” 

Bilbo laughs in a breathless, delirious sort of way, scrubbing his free hand over his face like everything about this is unbelievable. A Dwarfish king between his thighs, begging to suck his soft cock while he makes himself come like it’s something worth coming over. It _is_ a foolish scene, and Thorin’s cheeks burn at the inherent humiliation of it. He loves this particular filthy sensation, though: the knowledge that he _is_ so much, and has _done_ so much, but he has never felt more himself than he does on his knees, serving a halfling. It is almost a comfort, to know in his heart of hearts he is something vulgar. Something soft. 

“You are..I— _fine,”_ Bilbo finally chokes out, settling onto the bed bonelessly, limbs strewn in a lazy mess across the bed. “Have your way with me, I suppose. I can’t help but think you’ll grow bored before you finish, though. In which case, you may use _my_ mouth instead.” 

He licks his lips, and Thorin’s gaze snags upon the motion and the flash of wet, delectable pink. It’s a tempting offer, but then again, everything about Bilbo is tempting, at least in part because Bilbo is so convinced otherwise. Thorin loves his modesty, his shame, his belief that mediocrity is not worthy of worship. But Thorin has known greatness, and he has known the humble rolling green hills of the Shire, and there is a reason he chose Bilbo Baggins as the final, and fatal chapter in his story. “I will not grow bored,” he promises, tucking his thumb under Bilbo’s cock and lifting it, admiring the rose-petal pink of the crown peeking out from the pale folds of his foreskin. Bilbo’s cock is small when it’s hard, proportionate to the rest of him, a mouthful Thorin can easily swallow down, balls and all so his lips press flush to his body without effort. Soft he’s even smaller, almost disappearing into the thick thatch of his pubic hair, and Thorin loves the knowledge his face will be buried in him, inhaling as he nurses. “You’ll see.” 

And with that, he takes Bilbo into his mouth, groaning at the sheer, carnal pleasure of it. The taste, the slickness, the high keening sound Bilbo makes as he digs his heels into the mattress on either side of Thorin’s body. “Oh— _oh,”_ he murmurs, hands scrambling in Thorin’s hair. “It feels quite good, actually. Even if I can’t—even if I wont—“ 

“Shh,” Thorin murmurs as he pulls off in a frothy mess of spit, rubbing his lips up and down the short, fat shaft of Bilbo’s cock as he takes himself in hand, unable to stand it any longer. “Just… Let me, Master Baggins.Please.” And then he sucks him down again, swirling his tongue around the plump, perfect mouthful. 

Bilbo pumps his hips, squirms and whimpers and eventually caves, fucking the heat of Thorin’s slick mouth with sloppy, aimless abandon, fisting in the sheets. It’s a lovely thing to witness because it’s self indulgent, the act of seeking pleasure knowing _full well_ it has no end, no climax. He's not even fully hard, just swollen and hot and sweet, burning in Thorin’s mouth as he sucks him in greedy pulses. His own orgasm is building, never far off where Bilbo is concerned, because this, _here_ , is all he’s ever wanted. All he would have longed for, if he ever allowed himself to long for anything beyond the service of his people, then his subsequent, worthy death. 

He moans, tugging on his own cock desperately, so hard with the knowledge that this is his greatest desire. To be of service to Bilbo Baggins. To break himself down for him, in front of him, upon him. He clutches at Bilbo’s thigh with his free hand and smears a fistful of slick precum down his shaft with the other, touching himself rough, wanton, clumsy. A far cry from the tender and reverent sweetness of his mouth. 

The juxtaposition might have been what did him in, if he kept at it. But instead, it’s Bilbo. Ever unexpected, ever a tipping point. “Look at you,” he murmurs as Thorin jacks himself off, voice coming out tinny between vast, shuddering breaths. “You really—you aren’t getting bored at _all._ You love it, just—just having me in your mouth. The taste is enough to finish you off, isn’t it?” 

Thorin nods, because its easier that letting go to confess _it is not just the taste, but the whole of you. The way you allow me in, the way you bend and gasp and twitch. The way you are but a soft, fragile halfling but you have the whole of my heart in your palm, to break or to keep. Please, my love, keep it. Keep me, for now and for always. Make me your favorite slave._ Thorin tongues at him desperately, twisting his own wrist at the crown of his cock, knowing Bilbo is watching attentively, disbelievingly, hungrily. “You’re going to come like that,” be breathes, soft cock flexing against Thorin’s swollen lips, words trembling with awe. “ _Thorin,_ oh— _ah,_ you’re—you are really _such_ a filthy, lovely thing sometimes, did you know how— _ah_ —it breaks my heart?” 

And just like that, Thorin is spilling in torrents over his own fist, groaning around Bilbo’s soft cock as he empties himself in wild, snapping lurches of his hips. 

When it’s all over, there is static, and softness, and the sensation of Bilbo’s small hand sifting through his hair. “I’m really so lucky your adoration is such a plain, easily observable thing,” he breezes, fingers pausing to still at Thorin’s throat, as if checking for his pulse. “Otherwise I might be insecure. Making a modest home in the Shire with Dwarfish royalty, and all.” 

Thorin hugs Bilbo’s knee to him, and presses a wet kiss to the bone of it. “I love our modest home in the Shire,” he admits, pressing his tongue to soft, salty skin for a moment before he allows himself to smile. “And I love you.” 

“Oh I’m _well aware_ ,” Bilbo sighs, sounding delighted, if not slightly delirious. Worked over to the point of fragility, and Thorin thinks that is something to be pleased over. A vast privilege he is granted, to handle Bilbo until he is moments away from breaking. “And I am quite thankful for it. I still might be dreaming of you and finding it an impossible dream, were you not so _crass_ about what it was you wanted from me.” 

“I am glad you like me crass,” Thorin admits, settling so that his head is pillowed on Bilbo’s abdomen. There’s come all over his own thighs and the sheets under him, but he’s already decided he will take it upon himself to clean those, today. In gratitude. In apology. “I am not sure there is any other way I could be, concerning you, Master Baggins. You make a vile, hungry creature of me.” 

“Well. I rather prefer you vile and hungry, if that’s how you see it,” Bilbo counters, smiling. 

Then, his stomach growls under the press of Thorin’s cheek, and so he turns to kiss the distant rumble. “Could you eat?” he asks him, eyes trained on the flush of his cheeks, the darkness beneath his eyes like something Thorin could smudge away if he just _touched_ him enough, touched endlessly with the intent to heal. “I could eat.” 

“I hope you mean elevenses’s and not _me,_ Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says with mock firmness. “Because you have eaten me all up, and there is truly none of me to go around at this moment in time. Perhaps, after some food, I shall consider it. ” 

“Freshly baked bread and cherry tarts?” Thorin asks, arching his brows as he peels away from Bilbo reluctantly. He gazes down upon him, his soft stomach, still softer smile. The whole of him an impossible, brilliant thing to cherish. He grins in spite of himself, showing his teeth like dogs show their stomachs. 

“Yes. That will do,” Bilbo sighs, sitting up to kiss Thorin. “As long as I get to taste _you_ after the fact. I really thought you'd tire of your own hand and fuck my mouth, you know. I was truly astounded that you’d deny me so.” 

Thorin’s stomach drops and the heat begins to build again, the flames of it a wild, ever burning, impossible fate to escape. He throws himself willingly into it, for there is nothing else to do. He has learned as much, “I am full of surprises, Master Baggins,” he says, and somewhere, there is treasure, and there is adventure, and there is fire, and there is ash. But here, there’s _this,_ and Thorin has realized that's all he truly wants. 


End file.
